Here we see a happy, cheerful event, perhaps a turning point in this 1950s perfect version of setting up home in a nice, shiny suburb. The movers, meticulously dressed in sharp, crisp uniforms, shift this family’s worldly goods from the immaculate truck into, one presumes, an immaculate house. A perky puppy leaps near the cute kid’s trike as Mom beams her approval. Smart move! she’s thinking, Now, what box did I pack the scotch in…

In the real world, moving is no such thing as presented above. I should know – I’ve just moved. On top of that I downsized. Who needs all that space when you can streamline life down a few more boxes than a college dorm graduate?

My belongings originated from several destinations: a storage space miles from my new home, plus the stuff I was dragging my former house. I selected some pieces from my parents’ house (would you leave behind the Danish modern meets American Southwest bedroom set? Or the glass lamp with the faded lemons on the inside? I think not) brought more from my last house and wedded the two in domestic bliss.

Since I always need to write, my desk and computer get first dibs on placement and setup. Trouble was, I pulled out all of the wires and neglected to individually wrap/identify each. A spaghetti pile of cables defied my will as I labored to separate them and identify their purpose. My brain scrambled. Now what does this go to again? After a while, I sorted and connected, but not without a gourmet selection of unprintable words.

And even though staring at my computer allows me to feel somewhat normal, a partial turn of my chair reminds me of how much I have yet to do. Sure, I took the worse of my boxes and shoved them in the basement. It’s easy. There they’ll stay, until that next spurt of boundless energy springs forth, oh, let’s say, in 2025. Do I really need that stuff anyway?

What I need is to write. I have a whole host of line editing to do for my book, plus this blog, as well as other pieces and bits I’ve promised to do. While I might be frustrated, I’d be worse if I didn’t have my instrument of creativity available. So please excuse me while I return to my most important task at hand: ignoring the boxes while I figure out how I’m going to make my unpublished work a runaway bestseller.